


dancing with our hands tied

by kaermorons



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Collars, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: The Wolves get tired of Lambert's bitching about being a Witcher, and give him an ultimatum.Written for Kinktober Day 14: CollaringRead the tags. Don't like; don't read.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert/Vesemir
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47
Collections: Witcher Kinktober Ring





	dancing with our hands tied

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth of my 10 prompts I'm doing for Kinktober, which I'm sharing with my wonderful friends [fishie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish/pseuds/what_about_the_fish) and [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/pseuds/AC-DD) (link to her kinktober pseud).
> 
> See you on Saturday.

It was a common thing to hear through Kaer Morhen’s halls: Lambert, bitching and whining about being a Witcher, complaining about the aches and pains and lack of any meaningful rest he got while on the Path. He groaned about the early-morning training he has to do with the others, awake before the sun even rose. He complained about how hungry he is out on the road, never enough rations to keep him satisfied between towns, between contracts.

He usually tired of his tirades about two weeks in, but apparently, that season on the Path had been  _ much _ harder than expected, and they were approaching midwinter with the same song and dance to the beat of Lambert’s harrumphing and sighing. The others were used to it and generally ignored him so he could just let it out until he would just fall into the same routine and rhythm, the comfort of a familiar bed, a warm fire in a hearth, and Vesemir’s cooking.

This was worse than when Lambert came back with the scars on his face. The sulking was almost worth the silence.

Every door in his way was kicked open. Every sword stance was lazy, unmotivated. He took injuries just to get out of training. The only thing he didn’t mind was the chores. The simple act of rebuilding what had been broken, the monotony cleared his head just for a little bit. He wasn’t rending monsters’ heads from their bodies, he wasn’t cutting down rapists and bandits and mages, he wasn’t poisoning himself just for a burst of ability. He was remaking. And every time he saw his handiwork on the walls, in the courtyard, evidence of his repairs all around the castle, it filled him with a sense of pride he thought had been lost.

But it seems that there wasn’t much else for Lambert to do, chores-wise, after he’d gotten through Vesemir’s list for him, and half of Eskel and Geralt’s lists. It made him restless, irritable. And when he was irritable, he bitched about being a Witcher.

“...I cannot believe that you take pride in killing things. There’s absolutely no reason for us to be doing what we do. It’s the law of nature, live and let live.” Vesemir knew he was just trying to rile up Eskel, the more righteous of the group. Eskel was barely managing to keep his cool, and he commended Eskel in his mind. Composure was a good thing for a Witcher to have, even in the face of family. “Why’d you even bring me up here, Vesemir? Why didn’t you just let me die in the Trials?”

It’s this last remark that made Vesemir snap. With a burst of movement, he stood from the bench, knocking it back to the floor behind him. Fast as the wind, Vesemir rounded the table to where Lambert sat, expression shocked and open. There was a hint of fear there, but it was replaced by indignation and anger in a moment. Vesemir cut him off before he could begin. “You don’t want to be a Witcher? That’s fine. But you cannot stay in Kaer Morhen. You cannot wear the medallion and walk the Path and come here to  _ our home _ and say you don’t want this. I’ll make you a deal. You stay here in Kaer Morhen, serve us here as a  _ slave _ and nothing more, letting us fuck you when we want, doing what we say, and you keep your mouth shut unless there’s a cock in it.”

Even the fire in the hearth didn’t dare to make a sound.

“If you hate it so much, there are other ways you can be of use. But you will not be allowed to toss your potential and your skills to the wind and lay like a piece of furniture around Kaer Morhen the rest of your days. You are still my Child of Surprise, and you are still my property to do with as I please. So shut up and walk the Path, or get on your knees.”

Lambert’s eyes were big as dinner plates by the time Vesemir finished. The old swordmaster wasn’t bluffing, but he was definitely doubting Lambert would take  _ slavery _ over a life, hard but free, on the Path. He checked in on his scent, finding a bit more of that fear and apprehension he’d had since Vesemir stood, but now…

_ Arousal. _

His brothers stayed perfectly still, watching the events transpiring before them. They’d never seen Vesemir act like this, speak like this before. Lambert looks to them, for defense, for  _ something— _

Eskel. Eskel would understand it’s all talk, help him out of this mess he’d made, but Eskel’s expression was equally serious. He stood smoothly, and when he stood just behind Vesemir’s shoulder, his voice rasped out, “To be a Witcher is a gift, it’s one you’ve always tried to reject. Accept the gift or make yourself a gift to us.” A bit of panic flooded Lambert’s gut as he turned to the other.

Geralt. Geralt would surely help—

But he got up to his feet as well, his straining erection prominent as he took his place at Vesemir’s side. His expression remained infuriatingly stoic as ever, but he reached out and ran a hand through Lambert’s hair, gripping it at the root to force his head back and bare his throat. He didn’t know what made him submit so quickly. “You’ve always hated the Path before you. Maybe this is your destiny, little brother.”  _ Fuck, if Geralt’s talking about  _ destiny _ with that serious of a tone… _

Lambert’s eyes went to Vesemir again. The dread of the moment had burned out like a fuse and was imploding his restraint like a well-made bomb. Without breaking eye contact, he slid off the bench and went to his knees. He would have fallen had he been standing. As it was, they were keen to give out anyway.

“I’ll kneel.” He hardly recognized his own voice as he said it.

Vesemir reached down to him and plucked the medallion off of his neck, as easy as anything. He could have floated away at the difference in feeling. The only thing that grounded him was Vesemir’s next words.

“Good boy. Now strip.”

* * *

The first few nights were spent training Lambert up to standards. As he learned how each of them liked their cocks sucked, he felt the intrusive training and drilling of sparring slip away. His hands softened as he used oils in Geralt’s hair, smoothed creams onto Eskel’s scars, and massaged old aches and pains out of Vesemir’s muscles. He started leaving his hair soft and free of any product, liking how they petted him and held him by his hair to fuck his throat. And when they finally took his ass, he nearly forgot his own name. He no longer wore clothes, kept in warm rooms all over the castle, save for the moments he had to go muck out the stables and barn coops. 

It was a similar transformation to the Trials, though a lot less painful. The emotional changes were hard to stay on top of, however. He’d wake in the morning snuggled into their sides, the familiar scent of  _ Kaer Morhen-safe-home-pack _ clouding his judgment and decisions for a moment before they would bark at him to get to the end of the bed and kneel. He shook and shivered with the anger, shame, disappointment that flooded his veins. How could he forget that he was not one of them anymore?

The tension grew too much to bear some nights when all he wanted to do was play Gwent and just joke around with his family. He couldn’t excuse himself for a good steam-letting session in the training rings. He couldn’t even go for a piss without asking Vesemir to unchain his ankle from the table leg. He knew he could break the chain with a well-calculated pull, but it wasn’t about them. It wasn’t about how strong he was, or how smart he was. They only wanted him for how obedient he was promising to be. Sure. He could get used to the new place he had among them.

But there were rules. They all had them, depending on who he was with.

With Eskel, Lambert wasn’t to look at his face. He would keep his eyes downcast. In the darkest hours of the night, Lambert would sneak glances at his brother’s face, relaxed in sleep. His heart would clench with the memories, also fading like his training, of Eskel’s smile, the way his eyes would crinkle up at the edges. His medallion, the one Vesemir had taken, had always been a grounding weight around him whenever he felt a similar anxiety bluster through. Without it, though, only his shame, the knowledge that he’d disappointed the kindest person in his life, kept him down.

Under Geralt’s command, he was not allowed to be higher than him. If Geralt was sitting, he was kneeling. If Geralt was sleeping, he was on the floor by his bed. And gods forbid, if Geralt was on the floor, Lambert was to start digging. The chill in his bones from the frozen stones of Kaer Morhen left him shivering some nights, and in those dark, cold moments, he made himself believe he deserved nothing more.

Vesemir’s rule was by far the most difficult to obey. Each day, he was given permission to speak thirty words without reprimand, no more. He got so used to thinking about what he was going to say, about the number of words he could speak to his mentor, now his Master, he sometimes didn’t speak at all just to save himself the maths. He used to be able to tell Vesemir anything. They’d go on walks around the keep together, talking about politics down on the Path, philosophy they’d found in books, but that was taken away, rescinded the moment he was no longer called ‘brother.’

The more he tried not to think about it, the more, of course, he dreamed it.

* * *

The few nights he’d woken with nightmares from the Path, phantom injuries still lancing his nerves, he was sure, he was so fucking certain they were going to break the game and comfort him. They always did, in winters past. Eskel always petted his hair and hushed him back to sleep, Geralt always rekindled his fire and stood watch in an armchair, sharpening his sword slowly to calm him. Vesemir always walked with him in meandering paths around Kaer Morhen to chase the shadows away.

Instead, they brought his head to their laps, put their cock down his throat, and held him there, keeping the burn in his jaw stoked as he fell asleep again. He had to admit sometimes, it worked. But those nights where he didn’t know where he was, couldn’t recognize the scent of home, they simply pinned him to the bed with all their weight and held him there as he sobbed and gasped and snotted all over the fucking place.

He was fucking miserable. Perhaps this was just part of the test. Of course they wouldn’t treat him  _ good; _ he was an unpaid whore-slash-maid-slash-healer, at the most basic level. He wandered the castle with his head down, on his hands and knees, silent as a mouse. He curled up on the stone floor, on his aching back, and tried not to sleep. He hardly ate the food he made, instead giving his masters the lions’ shares. Had he looked up, he would have seen the concern on their faces.

He did all of these things to avoid punishment. He knew the weight of Geralt and Eskel’s hands on him from their years sparring and training together, the last Wolves on the Path. He knew the sharp snap of Vesemir’s tone that often broke his posture in two, shame radiating from his bones. He hated the threat against him. Lambert only wanted to be good for them. He only wanted the easy days they used to have, not these terrible nights alone, after terrible lonely days.

Vesemir started slipped out of bed every few nights to go work on something in the basements. Lambert wasn’t allowed in certain parts of the keep, didn’t have the privilege to walk around freely, so he only had his vague curiosity keeping him informed of the goings-on. The dark cloud over his head kept his once-untamed curiosity at bay.

Then one morning, waking in Vesemir’s bed after the best night’s sleep he’d gotten in actual decades, he feels...different.

It didn’t take long, taking stock in his own body, to figure out there was something on his neck. For a gut-wrenching minute, he thought it meant they had put the medallion back on him and were forcing him out of the castle, but when his hands touched supple leather and silver buckles and fur lining, he was confused. Hammered into the leather were three letters in Elder orthography. He took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to parse them.

The first, a long straight line, with another line at the top.  _ Eh? _

The second, a sideways triangle, pointing...right.  _ G? _

And the third, a tailless arrow, with a plumed line pointing up from the top of the arrow.  _ V? _

_ V’geh? Egg’vh?  _ Lambert frowned, wondering why the letters were on his collar.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

His  _ collar. _

_ Eskel. Geralt. Vesemir. _ His eyes widened, overcome with the need to fucking  _ look _ at it. This wasn’t feeling  _ real _ until now. Another toggle on the collar, just below the ring at the front, held a much smaller version of the medallion he’d worn for so long. It was not bulky or utilitarian like the medallion before was, but instead served to remind him of who he belonged to.

Alone in the room, he skittered to the looking glass atop the chest of drawers on the far wall.

The collar was beautifully-made, the thick brown fur looking delicate as lace in the dim morning light. The leather had a beautiful shine to it, oiled and polished. Even the buckles gleamed, keeping it secure below his Adam’s apple but not choking him. The mirror confirmed the letters he’d felt, the tag’s design, declaring his loyalty, his masters.

He watched in horror as his eyes welled with tears and his smile grew wider than he’s ever felt it go. Pride and happiness swelled in his heart, and he ran his fingers over the runes, over the dangling charm on the collar.

His collar.

A tear fell down his cheek and landed on the dresser, a moment before his knees gave out. His enhanced hearing alerted him to the steps running to the door, but he didn’t look up, holding onto the collar in delight, in happiness, in utter joy.

“Do you like it, pup?” Vesemir asked,  _ Master _ asked, squatting down by his side. He nodded and then looked up at him.

He’d use his words for this.

“It’s more than I ever thought that I could have. I’ve never thought I’d want to be owned. Take care of me, like I take care of you?” he requested. 

A warm hand cupped his cheek, holding up a clip at the end of a leash, matching the leather around his neck.

“Of course we will.”

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/).


End file.
